


Losing Loss Of Battle

by NacreousGore



Series: Burning Despair Does Ache [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Canon-Typical Violence, Danger, Desperate Stiles Stilinski, Desperation, Deviates From Canon, Fear, Marking, Omorashi, Pheromones, Pre-Relationship, Protective Derek, Scent Marking, Werewolf Senses, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28433304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NacreousGore/pseuds/NacreousGore
Summary: After Stiles pulls the trigger on a member of the alpha pack, the surviving members hunt him down while Derek attempts to keep him safe during a desperate night through the woods.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale & The Pack, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Burning Despair Does Ache [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036131
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Losing Loss Of Battle

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the Caretaker track. 
> 
> set in /inspired by canon but deviating from early season 3  
> implied Erica/Derek as much as the show implied it
> 
> Prelude to chaptered story in the works if anyone's interested in more of this universe (Derek/wolf nature/omo discovery)

Derek had knocked the alpha to the ground with a series of diagonal slashes to its neck. Scott and Isaac had swept in from both sides to pin the thing’s swollen arms down with heavy layers of chains, then darted back out just as quickly to get out of the way for the fatal blow. Stiles had been the one to deliver it. He had been appointed to carry the gun, heavy with the wolfsbane-loaded bullets that exploded into a sharp blast of smoke and shrapnel, a cloud quickly funnelling into the alpha’s open wounds, seeking the bloodstream. Stiles had been close enough to breathe it in too, and coughed as the cloud had swarmed around him. The coughing turned quickly to sick retching, but still proved to be far less fatal to his human system. By the time he’d fallen back in beside the others waiting at a safe distance, the conjoined alpha was dead and twitching on the ground. 

Scott and Isaac were appointed disposal of the body - removing it from the street, and were attempting to bury it when the remaining members of the alpha pack had honed in on them. Derek had been halfway back to Hale house where Stiles had parked when the text came in, frantic and misspelled from Scott’s phone. 

_ALPHAS FOUDN THE BDY_  
CANT HOLDTHEM BACK  
THERE COMING FOR STILES 

Now, running through the woods, distinctly aware of being in the heart of the alpha pack’s newly claimed territory, Derek’s all consuming goal had morphed into the transport of the weakest member of his pack unscathed out of the dark woods. The member who - when Derek shifts his head back to grab sight of him - is skirting off in a zigzagging wander further into the dark. Derek, cursing, leaps towards him, grabbing him to stop him from disappearing into the trees.

_“Jesus, Derek!”_ Stiles gasps, stumbling forwards but unable to fall with the hooked grip Derek has on the back of his shirt, somehow not tearing through the fabric. 

“Don’t go off on your own,” Derek seethes, a dark hiss to the back of Stiles’ neck that freezes him in place. 

“Jeez, okay, fine, I wasn’t - ” Stiles starts, and Derek is pulling him backwards, the force drawing a narrow trench through the foliage.

“This pack isn’t going to hesitate from tearing you to shreds if they find us, and I’m not going to be able to protect you from all of them,” Derek says. It’s all under his breath, close enough to lift the fine hairs at the base of Stiles’ neck. Derek releases him then, turning to look over his shoulder and scan through the trees, searching the air for any change. He doesn’t find any, and when he turns back Stiles hasn’t moved, his back still facing Derek, hands wringing slightly at his sides.

“Yeah, not really aiming to get torn to shreds tonight,” Stiles mutters, turning on his heel to glance back at Derek from the side. “By them or anyone else,” he adds, raising his hands into a peacemaking gesture. 

“Then keep close and keep _quiet,_ ” Derek breathes, already looking away from Stiles to chase shadows through the woods. 

“Right, sure,” Stiles says, fidgeting from one foot to the other before speaking again. “Can you just give me, like, thirty seconds though, and then I’ll be as close and quiet as possible, I just need to - ” A rustle of leaves picks up from somewhere to the left of them and Stiles freezes mid sentence, eyes flashing to where Derek has gone rigid beside him, already honed in on the sound. Derek relaxes, marginally, a second later. 

“Just a rabbit,” Derek says, and raises a hand to silence Stiles as he makes to continue speaking. “We should keep moving. If there are still animals in this section then that’s going to help us stay hidden. Come on.” With that he’s sliding forwards between the trees, parting the small plants silently to slink through an unmarked section of the woods, and Stiles moves in to follow. 

The woods are dark, shadows of the thick trees stitched over the pitch black ground that extends out for what seems infinitely. Overhead through the gaps of branches the sky is overcast, cloud cover eating the pale light of the stars and half-moon and leaving nothing for the ground below. Derek’s vision adapts smoothly for the night, the lines and texture of the trees, but it’s apparent by the clumsy and tentative steps Stiles is taking that he was struggling with the lack of light. Pressing down on his instincts to run ahead, to evade and make for neutral ground, Derek holds himself back, staying close enough for Stiles to keep sight of him, eyes adjusted as best they could be as Derek cursed the clouds and the thickness of the trees even as they offered up the coverage keeping them unseen for the time being. 

Derek led the pace, cautious and painstaking as Stiles muttered under his breath, lamenting their lack of extra bullets. The plan had only taken one shot to be effective, but four others had been fired off until the fatal one had found its mark, leaving the enemy dead but the dart gun empty and useless. Derek carried on ahead, weaving them through a narrow path made by deer, guarding his steps through the obvious route and praying the scent of other creatures would be enough distraction to get them out of the woods. 

Ten minutes inch by, the clouds as silent as the woods around them, and Derek can feel the tension of the silence kneading into his muscles, keeping him alert but highly on edge. Behind him, he picks up that Stiles has slowed to an almost stop, and the drag of his shoes against the earth has Derek craning his neck over his shoulder to see what’s keeping him. 

“Come on,” Derek urges, catching onto the quick motion of Stiles’ hands moving at his front which he covers up quickly.

“Seriously, Derek, can you just give me a second?” Stiles whispers, and there’s a nervous lilt to his voice that edges his tone higher. The frequency prickles at Derek’s ears.

 _“What?”_ Derek asks, voice hushed with annoyance, flattened with the dread of the circumstance, and the irritation that it hasn’t seemed to have sunk in to his companion. 

“I just need to pee,” Stiles blurts out, almost laughing at the absurdity of it before Derek is wheeling around, closing the distance between them to clamp a hand around Stiles’ shoulder and pressing down with a force that chokes the next sound from his throat. 

“Absolutely not,” Derek snaps, and Stiles’ expression changes from sheepish to almost horrified. “That pack is _looking for you._ They’d catch your scent in a fucking heartbeat - ”

“I thought the scent of an alpha covered mine up,” Stiles says back weakly.

“I’m covering the scent of your sweat and your blood. Fuck, Stiles, your _hormones,”_ Derek says through his teeth, ignoring the sudden flare of heat that’s emanating from the boy now, high up on his cheeks. “They’re actively tracking you. They’ll be able to tell if you mark up their territory. You’re just going to have to hold it until we’re out of here.” 

“Okay,” Stiles says quickly, but something in his tone has Derek looking at him sharply. “Um. When’s that going to be?”

“It’s two miles to the edge in a straight path if they don’t pick up our trail,” Derek says. 

“Okay,” Stiles says again, shifting quickly as he moves to keep up with Derek’s pace. “And, uh, how fast can we cross two miles?” 

“Me, ten minutes,” Derek says, side eyeing Stiles. “You, in the dark, in this terrain? We’ll be lucky to get out in under an hour.” 

“An _hour,_ ” Stiles repeats, stalling again and Derek watches the bounce his leg has picked up, practically vibrating in the dark. 

“We’ll be lucky to get out at all,” Derek reiterates before he’s surging forwards into the trees. “They know you fired the shot. You’re not getting out alive if you don’t hurry up.” 

_“Fuck,”_ Stiles whines, jumping to catch up with Derek again, this time throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder, as if his own senses could pick something out of the black wall of nature behind them. 

Derek urges him back to motion, forcing himself to slow his movements to match what Stiles is capable of in the dark. To Stiles’ credit, he picks up the pace, channeling his nervousness into a canter with Derek appreciating the effort and doing his best to guide him around the dips and hollows in the ground. Occasionally Stiles stumbles, leaving Derek to grab the side of his collar like a scruff to keep him from careening into the soil. 

Another twenty minutes pass this way, faster but louder as sticks and bits of debris that Stiles’ can’t avoid are crushed underfoot. The night unfolds like a black cape across the landscape of trees and shapes in the dark, and they carry on at the compromised speed until Stiles is staggering like his muscles have clamped up, and he’s speaking hushed and urgently into the darkness.

“Give me a second,” Stiles says in an out of breath pant, twisting his body as he drags to a stop, and a few strides ahead Derek turns and levels him with a stare that Stiles doesn’t return. 

The stray pieces of wind that have infiltrated the forest pick up then, sliding across exposed skin and in between the leaves. It’s blowing across their path from the east - another advantage that takes some of the grating edge out of Derek’s posture. He slows, traces back to where Stiles is standing and allows him to catch his breath, not pushing him on straight away. 

There’s a lull of silence in the woods that’s raising unease in Derek. It’s too cool for insects, and the faint motion of the leaves more of a hushed ocean than rustling, too far out from the hum of traffic and electrical wires. 

Derek hones in on Stiles’ breathing next, not finding any sounds in the forest. His breaths are slowing, steadying out, and Derek turns back towards him, ready to urge him back into motion when Derek catches sight of Stiles with a hand settled between his legs, fingers squeezing in. One leg is crossed tight in front of the other, rocking with a tense squirm, his eyes clamped shut. 

It’s then that Derek picks up on _just_ how steady his breathing has gotten - it’s not a natural state at all but a forced and counted out drag. Stiles’ face is twisted in a rampant concentration, breathing out lowly through his mouth.

“It’s that bad?” Derek says, his voice coming out flat with deadly intonation. Stiles’ eyes flash open in the dark, the expression on his face serving Derek a grave implication. 

“We’re halfway out,” Derek says, lowering his voice until it’s barely words at all, just a dark weight moving from his throat into the darkness between them.

“How far can you walk into the woods,” Stiles mutters, and Derek is back at his side, hooking an arm behind him to push him back into motion. Stiles moves into it obediently enough, but the next unaided step has him slipping on a hollowed out divot of leaves and he rights his body automatically, splaying his legs out to dig his heels into the ground. The violence of the movement is a temporary loss of his concentrated control and he makes a crushed out sound, high up in his throat.

Immediately after Stiles cuts off the unintended whimper, a surge of ragged howls tear through the woods.

Derek can instantly recognize the purpose of the noise scattering through the trees; it’s distraction - disorientation. 

The tactic was a good sign - despite the bloodthirsty nature of it, they hadn’t caught their trail yet.

But the sound settles around Stiles like a sheet of ice, freezing him in place and his eyes flash to find Derek’s in the dark. There’s a shine of pure fear - it’s bright and glossy and something that Derek could have picked out even without the scent of it curling like fingers out towards him from the boy. It moves as a rolling wave of anxiety, coursing from Stiles’ skin towards Derek, leaking out into the night air around them both.

 _“Keep moving,”_ Derek breathes, stiffening the line of his shoulders, pointing them away from Stiles and back in the direction they’ve been headed. It feels to Derek like they’ve barely moved from the start, crawling through the trees, and the plan to extract themselves from the territory feels in the moment impossible. Derek’s mind twists suddenly, going to caves, to holes in the woods, a place to hide beneath the hunger of the sounds bouncing off the trees like thrown stones.

Beside him, Stiles’ muscles are locked up, eyes locked too on the shape of Derek’s mouth - speaking again in a fervent whisper that they have to _keep moving_ when another wave of howling is rippling through the trees like starved and fevered moans. The sound is echoed, a trick to sound much closer than it is - projected like they’re surrounded - and the immobilized spell breaks as Stiles folds forwards, legs twisting together and hands balling into a tight clench at his crotch. Derek can hear the scraping grind of his teeth clenching, and he steps in again to lock his grip around Stiles’ arm, pull him back to their path.

The thicker underbrush thins up as they move forwards - at a slower pace than before, and it weighs like dread on Derek’s shoulders. Entering a small gapped clearing, a large dead tree lays on its side. The roots are twisted, spiralling up, creating a pit in the ground where it had once grown deep. The hole is blacker than the woods around it, inescapably black, the scent coming from it deep and rich from soil and clay, and for a moment Derek is imaging digging themselves into it, waiting out the night. But the next thought tears the idea to pieces - being discovered, cornered in the pit of the earth, no escape from the alpha pack, lit up in the mouth of the hole. So Derek keeps the pace, hardly noticing that he’s gaining speed, dipping back into the shelter of the trees.

“Derek, I can’t - I can’t keep this pace up,” Stiles is whispering after him next. His voice is barely audible at all, but the rushed exhale goes straight to Derek’s ears, and he slows, turning back to meet him.

“You don’t have a choice,” Derek says grimly, backtracking to loop an arm beneath one of Stiles’, forcing him forwards again. Stiles bites down on the yelp that tries to come out as he leans into the motion, struggling to get his balance back to match Derek’s longer strides. He’s struggling - Derek has tuned sharply in to the irregularity of his gait, now riddled with jumpy lurches, quads unable to relax. There’s a narrow line of tension running down Stiles’ body now, rigid and tight with fear and rapidly wavering control.

They cross another too-short distance as five minutes drags out around them. The howls chasing them are falling and pitching and waning again, narrating the night as they sink deeper into the never-ending wall of forest. They’re slowing down, and it’s all dread with no surprise when Stiles is shuddering to a stop again a moment later.

“I _can’t,_ fuck, Derek, please - ” Stiles chokes out in a shaking gasp and Derek silences him again with a low growl, pressing him in towards a thin grove of trees. 

“They’re turning,” Derek breathes, close enough that Stiles’ pulse jumping out of his skin is almost reaching his. “Don’t move.” There’s a faint shift as Stiles tries to obey, but there’s a twitch to his crossed legs that won’t stop, muscles straining with the forced attempt to keep still while still trying to keep hold of himself. 

The sound of bodies churning through the trees is behind them - towards them now. The sound isn’t quite right, the angle not as purposeful as a full out charge, but Derek’s instincts have him shifting, back stiffening up, neck twisting to seek out the noise. 

He can hear the pack fanning out as they track through the woods, and Derek catches the scent of their chase. It’s dark and almost gleeful, furious but eager for the hunt, rage that’s blending with hunger at the prospect of prey. 

A new sound breaks out from the centre of them - not a howl now but a roar. It’s a direct challenge, a threat that Derek can feel in the pit of his stomach, his spine, and the ridges of his teeth are expanding, spreading into a silent snarl at the sound of it.

A thin and whining gasp from his side snaps his attention back. 

Beside him, Stiles looks made of more fear than flesh, the pull in his eyes too young for the situation, and it elicits a forked stab of sympathy that Derek doesn’t have time for. The ragged roar sounds again from behind them and Derek catches the shiver that runs through Stiles’ body. His skin feels like a solid mass of knots and tremors, reacting viscerally to the sound that’s seeking him out and Derek knows that Stiles can feel it in a different way than he can - some kind of bone-deep and primal terror, something entirely human and built to beware of the shadows in the night. 

Derek turns back towards the spreading noise of it again, focusing the red glare of his eyes into the darkness. The pack isn’t close enough to spot yet, but the wind is pushing their scent towards him, pushing his mind in turn to want to charge in after them, face them directly, tear flesh and roar back. It’s the presence of his companion, the tremble to the smaller body that holds him there.

The pack is close, they know they’re close in turn, and Derek can feel their frustration bleeding out through the trees. Knows that the level of anger will only keep growing until they sink their claws into the object of their pursuit that’s shaking at his side. 

“Der- ” Derek growls him silent before he can form the word, the command coming out as a deep vibration. It’s almost apologetic but Stiles’ eyes aren’t on him at all, are wide and vacant, sinking into the soil. Scenting the air, Derek picks up on little more than what’s coming off of Stiles - fear and discomfort that’s moving much closer to pain as the minutes tick by. It’s emanating like heatwaves from the smaller body in the dark, legs crossed and pulsing, with a visible quiver to his skin that only seems to worsen as a stretch of silence layers the woods. Derek reaches in, grips his upper arm and can feel the wrack of thin muscle pulled wire-tight. He squeezes, aiming for reassurance, but he can feel his own resolve slipping along with Stiles’. 

There’s a nauseous hole inside the pit of him, wrestling with the logical, driven part of his mind. This hole wants to tear off back the way they’ve come, to find the pack and turn the hunt into a ragged battle. It takes composure Derek barely has to push this down, to refocus on Stiles and try to encourage him to move again. 

“Can you walk?” Derek asks, the words nothing more than a low pressure of his vocal chords delivered close enough for Stiles to pick up. Stiles unlocks the press of his legs, taking a desperate and experimental step forward. He’s no further than a few steps away from the tree when he’s silently mouthing _fuck_ and digging the heel of his hand against himself, fingers curling in tight enough that Derek can sense the sprig of pain it’s causing. Stiles’ eyes track unsteadily to Derek’s in the dark, and Derek bites down another growl. _Trapped,_ Stiles’ expression is screaming - _caught_ and Derek is pressing him towards the shadowed coil of trees with his own body. He’s a breath away from reaching in and lifting him from the ground, tossing him over a shoulder to just make a break for it when the silence of the woods explodes into pieces around them. 

The sound that riots up is the frenzied cry of crazed animals, rabid pitched and desperate to sink rows of teeth into hot skin. It’s not the level or the ferocity of the sound that pulls them into a dead stop, but rather the spinning, circular direction of it. It’s on top of them, hoarse and screaming from all sides, and moving closer.

 _The uprooted tree_ \- Derek can almost visualize the sound coming towards them now. It’s been purposefully aimed at the large socket in the earth, thrown at them to imitate the immediate ambush, the closing in. Beside him, he can feel another jolting shudder explode across Stiles’ body and Derek wants to explain it, to illustrate what the pack is doing to them - relying on tricks and fear to do the work for them - but the wolf is taking over his mind and he can’t string the words together fast enough, his mind clouded with the red and growing urge to meet them, to bite out the threat, to tear them to pieces first.

Beside him, Stiles doesn’t make a sound, but a jerking flinch in his racing heartbeat redirects Derek’s gaze to him instantly. Stiles’ mouth is parted open, the wet gloss in his eyes spilling fiercely onto his skin now and Derek can smell his tears as easily as he can see them shining in the dark. They’re cutting into the air with pale distress. 

The sound of the roar is now riddled with echoed howls too, and Stiles’ eyes are flashing back to Derek again, though Derek doubts he’s really seeing him at all behind the sting of tears and warping tension. 

Derek scents the air, trying to judge the distance of the pack, still only getting the anxious dread of desperate panic from Stiles. Another rabid-mouthed and breaking roar and the air of the woods is immediately overshadowed by a second smell. Derek winces - it’s unmistakable, the new scent sharp and bright and so doused in fear that the predatory shadow beneath his skin practically salivates as Stiles starts to wet himself. 

Derek’s head snaps back towards Stiles - his body is wracked rigid as he attempts to clench down, both hands twisted in between his legs, eyes not focused on anything other than _not Derek,_ cast out into the trees. Through in the dark Derek can see the wet patch appear on Stiles’ jeans. It’s a two inch spot, the glint of wet fabric impossibly black against the night, almost instantly hidden by his hands as he squeezes down in a frantic grapple to regain control. And he seems to - a beat too late. 

Derek can feel the air in the forest change - like it’s surging back with the collective inhale of the pack behind them. Stiles shudders backwards, pressing himself flat against the coarse bark of a tree, curling his body in towards it, trying to make himself smaller but Derek advances, grips him by the shoulders and twists him around, shoving him roughly. 

_“Move,”_ Derek growls into the side of his neck. 

“I can’t,” Stiles breathes back, voice shattered. “I can’t - I’m going to lose it, I - ”

“It’s a little late for that,” Derek cuts him off, ignoring the short flare of embarrassment that burns insignificantly amid the fear and racing of Stiles’ heart. It coils through his senses like amber and sage and Derek is already pushing him back into the trees, growling _run,_ and Stiles does, a staggering but all out sprint with Derek right behind him. 

The pack is behind them too, but not quite on top of them yet, and in his mind Derek can see an ever-shrinking gap of chance of them both getting out of the woods alive.

In front of him Stiles is pointed blindly into the trees, unable to navigate past the pressure Derek is delivering behind him, and he’s aiming straight for an incoming drop-off that Derek doesn’t have time to warn him about before they’re both hitting the edge of it, skidding hard down the embankment. 

The way down is scattered with rocks and ragged weeds clinging to the side of the steep slope, wet mud filling the cracks between, and their fall is far from silent. 

A splintered wall of sediment snags at Derek’s back on the way down, and he hisses though his teeth. It’s directed at the fresh scent of blood more than the pain, and he can feel deep inside his chest the knowledge that the pack has zeroed in on them completely now. 

The fall ends as quickly as it came on, and the noise of it settles through the trees as stones shift and scatter around them, trailing muddy lines down the ravine that outline their location, bold and neon. 

Derek feels the torn chunk at his shoulder sealing itself back together as he wrestles back to his feet. He’s gotten to Stiles by the time his flesh is whole again, assessing the damage through the dark. 

Stiles is on the ground, breathing hard and Derek reaches for him with more claws than fingers. Stiles jumps at the touch, flinching backwards then stilling, and it’s a black gust of relief when Derek doesn’t find an excess of pain radiating from his body. Derek can imagine the bruises already forming, and he’s scratched up but the scent of blood barely registers through the electrical wall of fear that’s pinning into Derek’s senses as he pulls Stiles to his feet as gingerly as he can manage. 

Instinct has Derek flattening Stiles into the incline of the ravine, shrouding him in his own scent, though the sound of teeth and heavy footfall tells him all too clearly that it’s in vain, too little, too late. 

Impossibly close together, Derek can feel the damp press of Stiles’ body. Of sweating skin, the sprinting heavy lug of pulse beneath it, and above them, the throaty sound of the alphas. The sound of the pack is diseased with cries of bloodlust and mayhem. It’s too much trying to run through Derek’s mind all at once, and he’s left with blinding impressions through the red wall of his vision as he shifts.

Beside him in the dark Stiles’ body is rippling with an anxiety that triggers a possessive edge through Derek’s spine, a need to protect that feels dense, thick and clouding every other thought.

The sharp slice of fangs through the line of his teeth opens up a cove of scents and tastes carried on the air, like a cavity has been directly opened between his nose, his tongue and his brain, and details from his unlikely pack mate are punching through the soft tissue at the back of his face. 

A tidal wave of wet fear is coating Stiles like a slick shadow, dotted with pain and the sting of fresh ammonia intertwined with pheromones. The combination bites raw and sexual like an offering against the wolf erupting from Derek’s mind, now impaling itself on the edge as it tries to twist and aim back on the pack descending down towards them. 

_They’ve got us_ \- Derek can hear the pack flank up to the edge of the ravine, preparing to charge down. He can practically see the descent coming down on top of them when the wind picks up from the east again and suddenly Derek can sense wolves incoming - not the alpha pack but his own. Humans too - and the sharp, smoking scent of wolfsbane that accompanies them nearly punches the wolf from his mind as it tries to rear back from the cloying poison. 

It’s Scott who cuts out towards them through from the trees first. His eyes fiercely yellow, a brilliant gleam in the dark as he runs. Derek spins low at the sight of him, the muscles in his legs bunching tight before he’s leaping back up the embankment, carving a line through the rock to meet the descending pack.

The sturdy aggression of the first alpha proves to be a blunder as Derek intercepts his route down the ravine. The alpha - taller, broader, charging down the bank - has no chance to stop or slow as Derek digs his claws into the soil, crouching into an attack that smashes into the alpha’s lower half and sends him toppling down. He crashes down the rocks, delivered shaken and torn up directly into Scott’s path. 

Derek hears the roar of the alpha cut to pieces by claws, and he barely has time to register the swift _whoosh_ of an arrow soaring past his shoulder when the female alpha is slashing down towards him. 

She’s pointed fiercely straight at his throat with claws at either end of her reaching out like talons, lethal and blacker than the night. Derek can see a beam of distraction though, a fracture in her focus - the tight line of her neck is wrong, twisting towards the bottom of the ravine. Seeking out her mate, Derek realizes, and when he charges her she reacts a heartbeat too late with that flash of claws. Derek catches her wrist with the protrusion of his fangs, sinks them in past the flesh until they’re met with bone and he’s crushing his jaw down hard enough that he hears the sick _crunch_ inside his head. 

The female screams. It’s an anguished howl that radiates beyond physical pain, and down, behind them, Derek can hear the rest of his pack joining Scott, the tearing of flesh and sopping blunt sounds of resistance but not enough defence from the fallen alpha. 

Derek grits down even further on the female’s limb and pivots, letting his jaws snap open to throw her down the rest of the incline. He hears the heavy sound of impact, and it’s chased with a bright and wildly dark laugh closing in - _Erica._

Suddenly the hairs on the back of Derek’s neck raise violently, and he chases the feeling of eyes on his back. Tracing up he finds the red glow of eyes at the top of the drop-off. _Deucalian,_ and a growl stems up from the core of Derek’s chest. Violent apprehension, challenging and vicious, and from behind him on the ground reels the sound of his own pack gruesomely winning the fight. 

Above it, Derek can sense a furious and despairing rage, but the burning red of the alpha’s eyes disappear back into the trees. 

A powerful surge of victory explodes through Derek’s veins at the retreat, and the feeling - crimson pride and hunger for sick carnage - narrates his descent to assess the fallout. 

Four arrows are sunk deep into the meat of the female’s body, the holes still smoking where the heads were buried deep, and Derek finally spots Chris and Allison Argent in a pocket of trees, weapons dropped to their sides. 

Boyd is already digging a pit in the wet topsoil - a hole for the bodies to rot in. Derek doesn’t have time to thank or even acknowledge any of them before Erica is sweeping in to greet him first. The first thing he scents on her is blood. There’s a four-lined slash across her face, deep from her temple to her jaw, the edges turning pink in early healing, the centres bold and crimson. But she’s smiling - a wide spread of dark delight that overwrites the wire of pain that’s strewn across her shoulders. She comes to him through the trees, presses up against his chest and Derek can feel the arch to her body, wracking through the healing process and demanding more from him than reassurance. 

She’s fought hard, amateur but eager and his instincts demand that he curl around her shape, reward the violent loyalty. Erica melts with sharp teeth into his shoulder, easily the most depraved and wolfish of his young betas. Derek holds her, the wolf inside his mind marvelling at how she reacts so wholly to the violence of it, now soaking into the dark nature of desire. He stiffens his grip against her next - distancing the embrace as he feels his own resolve start to slip alongside her. He knows she struggles with it too - that ancient overlap of fear and hunger, lust and primal terror.

She ignores his call for distance, pushes back in like she’s starved for his touch, and he can scent a growing flicker of arousal sparking from within her. Derek dampens it with more distance, wonders if she’s picking up on Stiles through the thick curtain of blood and action. Derek can still sense him clearly - human and worn ragged from the chase, the wet sting of urea coating his clothes, though hidden beneath the mud and debris from the fall down the embankment.

Behind the methodical and strong pound of Erica’s heart against his own, Derek can hear the prey-fast beat of Stiles’ heart too. Can hear the hushed thrum of Scott’s voice alongside it asking _“are you hurt?”_ Then, _“I’m so happy we found you.”_ The _in time_ is so heavily implied that Derek releases the shift, dropping his features back to human and looking over to where Scott is standing in front of Stiles. 

Scott’s hugging him, tight enough to flatten the breath from his lungs, and Stiles’ hands are held rigidly at his sides, fingers curling around nothing. Adrenaline is sloughing off his frame and giving way to a bluntly terrified exhaustion. 

Derek moves in towards them, stepping into the dripping sheet of Stiles’ scent. It’s fear spring loaded with pheromones, sinking deep beneath the smell of blood and new death. Derek doubts the others have even noticed that Stiles had wet himself through the potent mist of alpha blood so thick throughout the trees, but the knowledge sits buried like a stake at the centre of his own mind. 

The alphas’ bodies lie like misshapen shadows on the ground, steam rising from the holes and gashes that won’t heal. Derek can hear the open-mouthed panting of the wolves in his pack - can see the flare of Erica’s nostrils locking on to his own scent. Scott is wearing a pained expression - tense and struggling for control, grappling with the onslaught of senses too, Derek notes. And Isaac, skirting at the corner of the scene, eyes glazed over, still amber in the dark, and Derek looks to him, watches his gaze stumble over the bodies - _he’s trying not to enjoy it,_ Derek recognizes. _Distancing himself from the violence. Holding on to his humanity._

It’s this recognition that makes him hone in on Isaac. It’s easy to capture his attention with a tight grip on his upper arm - Isaac snaps to focus on him, eyes glossed over and searching for a root. 

“Take Erica and Boyd. Deucalian is still out there and I want you out of the woods,” Derek says, and Isaac nods instantly like he’s soothed by the dark control of Derek’s growl. Erica resists at first, tugging back towards Derek with the intense remnants of the fight beneath her nails.

“Did you see?” She asks, wringing her hands around Derek’s arm, plunging her body back in around him. “I got her bad, I got her so bad - ” and Derek placates her with a rough nose of the nape of her neck, pushing her towards the others, and she goes reluctant but pliably. 

Derek moves towards the Argents. There’s a ridge in his mind from the wolf and its instincts that wards him away from the hunters but he presses through it, warning them of the alpha that vanished back into the trees. Mapping out his knowledge of their territory, of the wits and power of Deucalian, Derek’s certainty of his need for vengeance.

Chris listens grimly, and Derek is entirely aware of the man’s posture - rigid and blatantly placed between Derek and his daughter. But he nods, his fingers on the handle but not the trigger of his gun, and Derek sees the exchange for what it is - an unwelcome but necessary ally-ship, and the weight balanced on his shoulders feels a little less precarious when the Argents leave back the way they came.

Scott moves in front of him next, and when he pauses all Derek can sense for an instance is the distance between them, the power growing beneath Scott’s skin. 

“Thank you for looking after him,” Scott says, voice a little lost, afflicted by so much spilt blood, and through the distance, the power, something shifts and Derek can see how young he really is. 

Derek doesn’t reply with anything, just gathers them both towards the direction of Hale house. 

It’s a quiet walk through the woods. Scott sticks like glue to Stiles’ side with Derek trailing behind them both, a pressure stretched throughout his body, braced for signs or sounds coming towards them through the woods.

Derek couldn’t say for certain what made him do it. Some combination of terrible things, still more beast than brain calling the shots, and even as his actions play out Derek is looking for their origin. Exercising authority over Scott with a display of dominance, possession, maybe. Responding to the thrill of the hunt, to the fear and chemical rush he had fed off from Stiles, or simply his desire for something that could masquerade as family. 

Whatever the reason, before they make for the car, Derek brushes into Scott. He drags his chest across the beta’s back with a grounding grip on his shoulders. Scott seems to tense under it, freezing to the spot and he doesn’t move when Derek turns from him and advances on Stiles. Stiles stills too when Derek presses the line of his body against his frame. He shudders out an exhausted breath into Derek’s chest next, and Derek juts his chin down into the dip of Stiles’ shoulder. Marking him with his own scent, and before Derek releases him he takes a deep inhale, breathing in the stale scent of passing terror, coiling whiffs of pheromones and panic that narrate his own path back inside the empty house.


End file.
